


The Cost of Letting Go

by Dracze



Series: Elseworlds [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Background Femslash, Beginner Dom, Control Issues, Dom Bruce Wayne, Dom/sub, Emotionally Repressed, Flirting, Light Bondage, M/M, Past Bruce/Selina, Sex Club, Sub Joker (DCU), blowjob, bratty sub, experienced sub, no capes AU, repressed sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracze/pseuds/Dracze
Summary: Bruce is fine. Really, he is. He's been in therapy since he was a child, he's the CEO of his parents' company, he's young, rich and attractive, and he's trying to deal with his own demons as best he can. He absolutely doesn't need any interventions.Or at least that's what he wants people to believe. And it works well enough, right up until his ex Selina Kyle brings him along to a secret club under the Iceberg Lounge.And suddenly, it becomes so much more difficult to pretend.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Series: Elseworlds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1013289
Comments: 51
Kudos: 207





	The Cost of Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synthwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synthwave/gifts).



> This was written for Robatics's birthday last year (hi!) but I didn't publish it at the time because I wanted to wait until I have some more of it. Because, um. It's yet another huge idea that's pretty much all developed from start to finish that I want to add more to. So I'm not marking it complete for that reason, although this first chapter can still work as a standalone - and I figure we can all use some smut right about now.
> 
> The premise is simple: no capes, no heroes or villains, just two guys meeting in a BDSM club. You can figure it out from there. As always, please heed the rating and the tags, and I hope this will make your social distancing efforts a bit more enjoyable. 
> 
> Have fun, and let me know what you think!

“This isn’t going to work, Selina,” Bruce tries once again, getting out of the car in the dim back alley. 

Selina ignores him. She locks the car and comes around it so she can start across the small, discreet guarded parking lot, not checking to see if Bruce follows. 

Bruce doesn’t. He stands where he is, stuffing his nervously sweating hands into his pockets. 

“What if someone takes pictures of me?” he calls after her.

It’s a weak attempt, and Selina calls him on it. “Never bothered you before,” she points out. 

She does stop, though, her gait perfectly balanced despite the frankly murderous stiletto heels. She looks over her shoulder, and her bright green eyes meet his with part amusement, part frustration, and most of all — impatience.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I’ve never been caught inside a sex club before, have I? Bit harder to turn a blind eye to something like that.”

“Oh, so it’s fine when you’re photographed in flagrante or leak a sex tape or three, so long as there’s no whips or chains anywhere in the frame?”

“ _Yes_.” Finally, Bruce finds it in himself to take a step forward, and then another, and another — slow, at less than half Selina’s pace, hands curled up tight in his pockets for what little comfort it’ll bring. “It’s bullshit, but I don’t make the rules.”

“Would you relax?” Selina lingers until he catches up to her, then tugs at his wrist, all but pulling him along as though he’ll bolt if she doesn’t. “You’re not running for office, so it’s not like this can ruin your career or anything. Besides, you won’t be the only celebrity in there. Say what you want about Oz, God knows I’ve said plenty, but the guy sure knows how to keep things discreet.” 

“How _does_ he stop things from leaking, anyway?” 

“You don’t want to know.” 

That’s the problem: Bruce very much does. He’s far more interested in that side of Oswald Cobblepot’s secret little side-club — known to its customers simply as The Basement, or The Club, or so Selina keeps calling it — than he is in what the club’s intended for. He’s told Selina that time and again.

Not that she ever believed him. She simply ignored him, much like she does now, breezing right past his show of reluctance so she can keep tugging him along, leading the way round the back of the Iceberg Lounge towards the side of the building. Bruce trudges after her on heavy, heavy legs until they end up at a set of stairs leading down to a simple, unassuming basement door tucked neatly into the shadows. 

Unlike the gaudy front of the building promising wealth, luxury and fine dining, this door has nothing to advertise it. Not even a red neon flashing light, which, if he’s honest, Bruce came in half expecting. But he supposes it makes sense. If he were Oz Cobblepot, he wouldn’t want people to know he runs an exclusive BDSM club in his basement, either. 

This is a place for people who already know it’s there. A part of Bruce is intrigued by the mystery, and — yeah, okay, _and_ the promise of what he might find inside. Just a bit. Just to see for himself. Just enough that he got into Selina’s car in the first place, and is now standing here by the door with her when every ounce of sense he still has urges him to pull his hand free from hers and make a run for it while he still can. 

While he’s still got control over himself. 

While he still hasn’t — 

He shuts his eyes hard against the surge of dread, and swallows.

“This won’t help me,” he tries.

“You don’t know that,” Selina insists. She lets go of his hand and gets gracefully down the steps, then taps at the door in a simple pattern. “You _told_ me you were interested. You said, and I quote, ‘Casual sex isn’t working for me anymore, I need something stronger.’”

“I only said that because I was drunk.”

“In vino veritas, or isn’t that how it goes? Look, just give it a chance, and then if you decide you _really_ want to leave, I won’t stop you. Sound good?”

“Do I have a choice?” Bruce asks, just as the door opens at this exact moment. “Guess not.”

“Ballgag,” Selina tells the imposing, stone-faced but elegantly dressed bouncer, who nods at her but otherwise doesn’t move.

Soon as Bruce joins her by the door, giving the bouncer an uneasy glance, she pulls him inside after her with minimum fuss — and even less regard for his hesitation. 

“Think of it this way,” she says, lowering her voice. “At least you’ll finally get to see what I’m wearing. I know you’ve been wondering about that since I picked you up.”

Bruce glances at her, and down the long black trench coat tucked all snug around her body. There isn’t an inch of skin showing from the face down, but her boots are obviously at least knee-high, and her stilettos mean business. 

He catches Selina smirking, and looks away. 

“Stop that,” he murmurs, “or I really will bolt.” 

“You can if you really want to.” Selina shrugs. “Remember the rules: safe, sane and consensual. There’s no point to it if you’re not having fun.”

“Right.” Bruce readjusts his collar, and looks around as they make their way down a narrow plush-red corridor decorated with gilded mirrors and — rather pretentiously — Jean Cocteau arms holding candle-shaped sconces. 

Even with his nerves as shredded as they are, Bruce can’t help a smile passing them. Trust Oz to make even a basement sex dungeon a pompous, gilded affair.

Then he catches a glance at his own reflection, and fights down an absurd bite of self-consciousness. He’s wearing a simple tailored black suit and a black shirt to go with it, all of it smart and painfully boring; but Selina’s made sure to pick the most form-fitting set she could find in his closet and assured him it would be fine. 

Bruce, who’s done a fair bit of research on this, rather doubts that, and expects to stick out like a sore thumb. 

Then again, it might mark him not just as an outsider but also off-limits, which can only be a good thing. Tonight is supposed to be strictly about recon. The deal’s that he’s here to watch, learn, get a feel for the place, and _maybe_ stake out for potential partners if he likes what he sees. Selina’s told him very firmly that he isn’t ready for more.

Privately, Bruce quite agrees with that — just not for the reasons she thinks. 

He adjusts the fit of his jacket and follows her down the corridor, acutely aware of the press of each shirt button against his tense, wound body. His hands get sweatier with each step forward, and he curls them in his pockets again, digging in hard, breathing through it the way Leslie taught him. 

Steady. Steady.

The corridor ends in a heavy, embroidered ruby curtain. No one’s guarding it. Selina pushes it aside just enough to slip through, steps in, then turns to arch a meaningful eyebrow at Bruce. 

He swallows, and squares his shoulders. He’s definitely _not_ sure about this, but…

He can hear music, a slow, steady, sensual beat. And the quieter chatter of people talking, laughing, socializing. The normal sounds of friends hanging out, people having a good time. Like any club he’s ever been to. 

Except, a moment later, there’s — 

_Moaning_. 

And then — 

Crack. 

Crack.

Crack. 

Bruce’s heart, already agitated, picks up, and the kind of heat he knows he shouldn’t be feeling explodes in his chest to trickle up and down to the rest of his body, electrifying it, setting it on fire. He swallows, and it goes down dry. 

Selina smiles, letting go of his hand. 

“Come on then, tiger,” she says, and disappears behind the curtain, letting it swish closed behind her. 

Bruce hesitates for another beat, frozen in hot-and-cold paralysis just inches from the red curtain, listening to the noises from the room. He _really_ shouldn’t — his violent reactions to even this much are all the proof he needs. The sensible thing would be to turn around now and get the fuck out of here. It’s been weeks since he was able to find any sort of release, and that makes him volatile, unstable, he _knows_ that. It’s impacting his judgment now, coloring it with more than a touch of desperation.

Knowing that doesn’t stop him from closing his eyes, and letting the crack of the whip and the moans of pain-pleasure — he can single them out clearly now, easily, under everything else — tug at him with an urgency that’s getting too big, and too tempting, to shut away. 

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

Christ.

Okay.

… Just this once. Just for tonight. Since he’s already here. And he needs to — 

He needs to _see_.

He’s already half-hard when he pushes past the curtain, and what he sees on the other side brings him the rest of the way. 

Bodies — that’s the first thing he consciously registers. Bodies everywhere, in the booths, on the floor, on the raised podium at the opposite end of the vast, dark room, and moving rhythmically in shadowed corners. Curves and angles touched by shadow and languidly changing blue-pink-purple light; leather and latex and metal gleaming and flashing like a smile of invitation. It’s dark in here, the lights turned low and cool as they sweep over the haze of the floor, and it all seems to pulse to the thrum of the beat, caught in a slow-dance, or maybe that’s just his imagination.

The moans brim in his ears, fill them up like water. He shudders, electrified and coiled and tight, and lets it all take root deep in his chest despite his better judgment. 

Just one drink, he decides. There shouldn’t be any harm in _that_ , and in just watching, for a bit. 

And, well...

In the end, it comes down to this: he can control himself. He _will_.

It still takes Bruce a moment to even think about locating Selina in the crowd, and twice as long to get to the booth she’s snagged for them, distracted as he gets by the sights and sounds and smells playing out around him. 

But he does find her, eventually, and the sight of her stops him short. 

She’s shed her coat. Now, she’s sitting there wearing a skin-tight leather catsuit, zipped up to the middle of her chest and leaving more than enough cleavage to hint at the wonders underneath. She’s got a fetching headpiece with a pair of cat ears sticking out of her short hair, and there’s a whip strapped to her hip. 

“Hey there,” she greets him, amused sparkles dancing in her smug green eyes. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Something like that,” Bruce manages once he remembers how to speak. “Wow. You look —”

“We broke up for a reason,” Selina reminds him. 

“Yes, I know.” Bruce sighs, sliding into the booth beside her. “Still. Wow.”

“Just thought I’d remind you. But thanks.”

“So am I to understand,” Bruce tries, still unable to take his eyes off her, “that _all this_... was there the entire time we dated?”

Selina grins, swatting his arm. “Don’t take it too personally. You’d have run for the hills if I’d tried to break the whip out on _you_.” 

“I… might have,” Bruce concedes. He lets his eyes slip away from the spectacular picture Selina makes, difficult as it is, and sweeps them over the pulsing pink-blue-purple-black crowd. 

He swallows, and repeats, “Wow.”

“Told you.” Selina sits back, perfectly comfortable in this illicit underground kingdom, resting both her arms on the back of the seat and looking every inch the queen she is. Her eyes scan the crowd, too, with pointed purpose. “I let Oz know we’re here. Guessing he won’t be able to meet us personally, but he got someone to fetch us drinks, on the house. There’s a bondage demo starting soon.”

“Right.” Bruce clears his throat when a leather-decked Domme strides past their booth, leading her naked sub on a leash. Bruce shifts, adjusting the fit of his pants. 

Selina laughs, then points. “See? You’re not the only celeb around.” 

Bruce’s eyes follow the direction of her finger, trying to ignore the rising throb of anticipation and need enough so he can focus. Eventually, he recognizes one of Gotham’s well-loved weathermen on his knees by the bar, eating out a stunning brunette who lovingly strokes his sparse, greying hair; then the conductor of the Gotham Symphony Orchestra, strolling around with her chest straining in a tight leather corset; and over there in the corner, walking towards them, this almost looks like —

“Now this _is_ a surprise.” Kate Kane slides into their booth next to Selina, and then reaches into her blood-red handbag — to go with her black-and-red spandex outfit — and pushes a wad of banknotes over towards her. “Here you go, you harpy. Never let it be said that Kane women can’t admit defeat. Hi, Bruce.” 

It takes Bruce a few tries to get over the shock of seeing his cousin here, and looking like _that_ , but eventually, he manages. “You two had a _bet_?” 

Kate and Selina exchange glances. Kate shrugs. “I didn’t think she’d manage to talk you into this,” she says. “No offense, Bruce, but you’re a bit… uptight.” 

“All the more reason for him to come,” Selina interjects, collecting the money into her purse. “I thought you were at the base?”

“I’m on leave,” Kate explains. “Getting back tomorrow, so I wanna let off some steam before I go.” She winks at Bruce. “So what is it, cuz? Midlife crisis hitting early?” 

“I’m working through some things,” Bruce mutters, unable to quite meet her amused, twinkling eyes. 

That’s when a skimpily dressed waiter brings them their drinks, and Bruce appreciates the distraction. Bruce’s own drink comes with a complimentary wink and a long, suggestive look before the man turns around, his bare buttocks on display as he disappears into the crowd.

Bruce appreciates _that_ , too, and shifts in his seat again, trailing the waiter until he’s gone.

Kate whistles, and seems to regard him with new interest. “So the rumors are true?”

Bruce allows himself a smirk as he turns back to her. “Some of them.”

“Not sure if I should be proud of you, or insulted that I’m no longer the only Gay Cousin in the family. Welcome to the Club, Brucie.” Kate sticks out her hand and Bruce shakes it, surprised at how much her easy acceptance affects him. 

He hasn’t had much to do with Kate ever since adulthood snatched them both up far too early. Maybe it’s time to change that.

“You two still together?” Kate asks, looking between him and Selina. 

“Nope,” Selina says, popping the ‘p.’ “Tonight I’m just babysitting.”

“Well, then you’re lucky either way, Bruce,” Kate says over a wicked smile. “Selina’s the best mentor this place has. You looking for a Dom or a sub?” 

“Definitely not a Dom,” Bruce says, suppressing a shudder. “I don’t know that I’m looking for anyone yet. Just checking the place out.” 

“They all say that.” Kate bares her teeth in a quick, playful grin. “Then next thing you know, they’re parading around in latex and chains and building dungeons at home. Oh, but.” Her eyes, rendered bigger and brighter by her aggressive dark makeup, suddenly go wide as she turns to Selina. “You might want to be careful. You-know-who’s around, and he’s on the prowl for a new Dom.”

“Fuck.” Selina bites her lip, smudging some of the black lipstick, and quickly scans the crowd again. “You seen him?”

“Yeah, over by the bar. If he sees Bruce —”

“If who sees me?” Bruce asks.

“Nobody,” Selina snaps. “Don’t worry about it. Kate, could you —”

“I’ll check if he’s distracted.” Kate gets up, snapping her purse shut and slinging its tiny gold chain over her shoulder. “Look sharp.” 

“Okay, what was _that_ about?” Bruce asks, tasting his drink. 

It’s rich and light, with fruity undertones, sparkling with something like glitter in the gloom. He’s never tasted anything like it, and quietly, he wonders at the logic of serving alcohol in a place where clear-minded consent is paramount. 

“Nothing.” Selina takes a sip of her own drink, a colorful cocktail in a long glass decorated with tiny umbrellas. “So. See anything you like?”

“Yeah,” Bruce whispers, casting his eyes around the club. “... maybe. Doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.”

“The night’s still young.” Selina scoots closer, looking pleased with herself now, not a trace of her earlier alarm lingering anywhere that Bruce can see. “Let me give you the run-down. The most important thing you need to remember is you _always_ ask before you touch someone. Unless you find them in a position that makes it clear they want to be touched, like, say, they’re gagged and bound over a saddle with their ass up in the air, then it’s fine. And don’t be judgy. You’re gonna see a lot of weird shit around here. Don’t gawk, don’t be rude, and definitely don’t interrupt people mid-scene. Even if it feels wrong to you. Ozzie’s got good security and strict policies about harassment, so whatever you see happening out here, you gotta assume it’s consensual.”

Bruce swallows, throat tight. “Sounds a bit... idyllic,” he murmurs. 

Selina gives him a long, searching look. She sighs, letting her elbow bump into his arm. 

“I know you’ve got your doubts,” she whispers. “That’s fine. We all do. Doesn’t make you a monster or anything like that. I can _guarantee_ that there’s a person here who wants to take what you need to dish out.”

Bruce stares into his glass so intensely it starts to blur. He’s never regretted telling anyone anything more than he regrets this one night of drunken, desperate confessions to Selina.

He hadn’t touched alcohol since. 

“You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” he mutters.

“Look around you.” Selina does a broad sweep with her hand. “Those people come here because they like and _want_ pain. Pain, or humiliation, or being restrained, or all that at once, and then some. They thought they were freaks, that they wouldn’t be able to find anyone who’d give it to them. _They_ grappled with all that guilt you’re going through, too. You could be making someone here very happy if you’d just let go.”

Bruce doesn’t look up. Selina sighs. 

“You need to accept that it’s _okay_ if you need more than simple vanilla hookups,” she says. “And if you’re a bit more — intense, or —”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bruce insists. “Please.”

He can feel her gaze on him, prodding and searching, but then Selina sighs, moving away. 

“Fine,” she concedes. “But you _should_ talk to someone, and I’m a Domme. I’ve been where you are. It’s _okay._ ”

“I’m not like you,” Bruce insists. “I’ve looked into it, and I thought it could work, but I just don’t know.” 

“Why?” He can feel the heat of Selina’s eyes burning into him. “What is it that you think makes you so different from the rest of us here?”

She waits a beat, giving him time to respond. He doesn’t. 

Selina’s quiet when she says, “No two relationships are the same. This goes double for BDSM. I’m sure you’d find someone compatible with you if you tried.”

Bruce never looks up from the table. Eventually, Selina gets the hint, and sits back.

“Either way, if you _are_ looking for a sub,” she picks up, dropping the softer concern and slipping back into pro mode, “you gotta pay attention to the code. If you see a locked collar, keep away, they’re taken. An open collar is when a sub is prowling for a long-term Dom, so maybe don’t approach them if you’re looking for something casual. You can also go by handkerchiefs…”

Bruce mostly checks out after that. Selina’s briefed him on most of this before, and he’s done plenty of his own research besides. He focuses on the cadence of her voice instead, and as the danger of discussing his personal issues begins to grow distant, he slowly lets himself unclench, bit by bit, enough to start picking up on the different noises floating over the club. He glances this way and that, furtively at first but with more and more curiosity as he goes, and takes in the atmosphere, the outfits, the scenes playing out around him.

All in all, he thinks in the end it’s the _ease_ of it all that undoes him.

No one here seems ashamed. Not that he can tell. Instead, most of the guests look familiar and comfortable with one another, and more importantly — comfortable with themselves, in their own skins, in their fetish outfits or wearing nothing whatsoever. Talking to one another, right next to a pair getting into heavy foreplay right there by the bar. Smiling. Laughing. 

Being themselves.

Some of the guests grin at Selina and slip in for a quick word. She seems to know all of them by name _and_ preference, and acts as comfortable around them as she does at every society function Bruce’s seen her at. He enjoys watching her, and doesn’t expect that to change whether or not they’re dating — and even more than that, he enjoys the way her friends engage him but keep it light and casual, content to let Bruce sit back and observe. 

Even if they recognize him — which many of them clearly do — they don’t approach him any differently than they do anyone else, except maybe to welcome him into the community. Bolstered by that, Bruce lets his smile do most of the work, and they seem happy with that, and move on. 

And that helps, too. Some of the arousal is now insistently sparking back up, complicating things, but Bruce does appreciate the ease with which these people here chat with them only to casually admit that they’re about to go get spanked. There’s a freedom to it, and openness that Bruce doesn’t think he’s seen anywhere else.

He likes it. He admires it. But he’s not about to say so to Selina — she looks far too smug already, sitting there drilling him with those playful, knowing eyes.

Bit by bit, Bruce lets the music and all the varied, pulsing noises of the club blur and drift around him, settling into something calmer that edges out the worst of the lingering pressure in his chest. He’s not gonna let himself relax entirely, and definitely not in the way Selina wants him to. 

But watching all these people, listening to them — _envying_ them… 

It’s almost possible to pretend that one day, he could.

The distractions are so effective that he almost misses the way Selina suddenly stiffens next to him. He glances over just in time to catch her smile slipping away. 

“J.,” Selina says to the person now leaning over their booth. Her tone is _icy_.

Intrigued, Bruce looks up. And meets a pair of toxic-bright green eyes staring right at him. 

“Well how about _that_ ,” says the man now standing over their table, framed in colorful pulsing light. His voice is a lilting, melodious drawl, and his eyes gleam. “And it’s not even my birthday. Get you a drink, handsome?”

“Go away,” Selina snaps.

“Aww, but there’s plenty of room here and I need to get off my feet for a bit. New pumps, you see.” And then, without a lick of shame but with plenty of strange, jerky grace to make up for it, the man slips into the booth right beside Bruce. 

He’s the first person who’s done that all night. He makes a show of inspecting Bruce, and his wide, deep-red mouth slants into a crooked grin. 

“Hey there,” he says, voice dropping almost into a purr. “I’m J.”

Bruce opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t quite find the words. 

It’s the eyes, he thinks. They’re startling, pinning Bruce in place like a spotlight and keeping him there as though Bruce is the only thing in the world worth looking at. Except, it’s not _just_ the eyes — it’s everything else, too. From the wild, just-fucked curly green hair, to the deep dark makeup and blood-red lips, to the sharp long features, and naked stretches of pale, pale skin that the club lights paint white. 

The stranger isn’t wearing a shirt, just a leather harness squeezing tight over the top of his too-skinny chest. Against the pallor, in the blue-and-pink-and-purple light, the bruises, scratches, scars and smears of paint that litter his body stand out like a scream. 

He’s far from the strangest-looking person Bruce’s seen tonight. But there’s something different about him, something sharp and wild and unsettling, that Bruce can sense right away, and it’s — he can’t explain it. 

But he recognizes the answering spark of adrenaline inside himself well enough, and knows instantly what _that_ means. 

Trouble.

Swallowing over a throat that’s suddenly gone hot and dry, Bruce gazes back up to the man’s face — and then down again, over his pointy, lean body, over each bruise and hickey and scab, to the obscene low-rise tight leather lingerie that leaves nothing to the imagination, and the fishnet stockings that hug his long, long legs from mid-thigh down. He’s all limb and elbow and knee, fantastical and elusive in the club’s eerie lighting, and his eyes sparkle when he smiles. 

“Bruce,” Bruce finds himself saying, eyes traveling back up to face the now-grinning stranger. “Bruce Wayne.” 

He puts his hand out. The stranger — J., and isn’t that intriguing on its own — takes it, but not to shake. Instead, he captures Bruce’s hand in both of his, the touch of his velvet purple gloves as soft and inviting as it is surprising, and gently runs the pads of his fingers over the bumps of Bruce’s palm. At the same time, his leg shifts under the table to reveal a stiletto heel, and nudges close to Bruce’s foot, just shy of a touch.

“Aren’t you just,” he whispers. “Pleasure’s _all_ mine.”

It comes out less like a nicety and more like a _promise_ , and a pointed one at that, and somewhere inside Bruce familiar heat bursts into furious, insistent life. He studies the edge in J.’s smile, sharp enough to match his absinthe-green eyes.

He’s seen this edge before. He’s stared it down. He’s _worn_ it. 

_Shit._

“Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” Selina interrupts. Bruce blinks — he’s almost forgotten she’s here. 

J. blinks too, slowly, and smiles at Bruce for another heartbeat before he turns to Selina, as though looking away from Bruce for even a moment is a struggle. He sparkles when he moves, from the glittery makeup around his eyes to the actual glitter sprinkled all over his body. Rather than hide the bruises and scars, the glitter only lights them up, mapping out stardust trails around them like an invitation to explore.

“Why no, Selina dear, I really don’t,” he says in that high, breezy, lilting voice, and gives a mournful sigh. “There isn’t a single interesting unattached Dom here tonight, if you can believe such a thing.” His eyes flash to Bruce, and he gives him a crooked grin. “Or so I thought. Unless — you’re not a sub, are you, darling? It’d break my heart.”

“Definitely not,” Bruce says in a rush, ignoring Selina’s warning glare. 

The red-lipped grin widens, and J. angles his entire body towards him, running a hand through his hair, letting it fall in an attractive mess over one side of his face. “How _interesting_ ,” he purrs. “So, about that drink?”

“No,” Selina cuts in before Bruce can reply. “Beat it, J. Bruce is a newbie, he’s only here to watch.”

“Say it ain’t so.” J.’s eyes turn mockingly imploring, and he turns Bruce’s hand so it lies in his on the table.

“Afraid it is,” Bruce tells him. He can’t quite stop the corner of his mouth tugging up.

J. catches the opening immediately, and leans in. “Well, then, that’s all right. I know the ropes. I can show you.”

“Oh please,” Selina snorts. “You don’t have the patience. You don’t even follow the rules half the time. You’re the worst possible choice for _anyone’s_ first submissive.” 

“I could be patient,” J. argues, turning to her. “If I had reason to believe I’d enjoy the rewards.” He glances sideways at Bruce again, and winks. “I have a good feeling about you, stud. Think you can keep up with me?”

_Back away, you idiot. Back away now._

But it’s too late. There’s something — a thrill, a spark, an impulse, that same pull of danger that’s pushed Bruce into strangers’ bedrooms and off planes or bridges, into travel and basement fighting rings, seeking release, seeking a moment where he can just be and live and _forget_. It’s wide awake now, and kicking at him, pulling him towards J., making him reckless. 

Making him brave. 

Before he thinks to fight it, he turns his hand over in J.’s so that he can run his fingers over the smooth material of J’s glove: down his long thin fingers, up the rise of his palm, and over the thin bone of wrist. He stops at the fold of the glove, just over where satin gives way to flesh. 

His heart is drumming frantically, and the rest of the club falls away until there’s nothing but the jump of a pulse he can feel under his fingers; the sound of J.’s breath, sharp and sudden; and his eyes, fixed on Bruce.

“Well, I don’t know,” Bruce says in a low voice, holding J.’s eyes through it all. “Guess we’d have to wait and see. Or maybe that’s the wrong question to ask.” 

J. laughs, breathlessly. “What’s the right question, then?” 

Bruce opens his mouth to reply, but Selina chooses this moment to once again burst into this weird little bubble between them, and pull them both back into the here and now.

“You’re not finding out tonight,” she says firmly. “I’m serious, J. Piss off.”

“Bruce?” J. asks, leaning in.

 _Fuck_ , Bruce thinks, watching the vein in J.’s long neck pulse in tension. The skin there is marred, too, but the marks are already fading, like the memory of whoever left them there. Bruce’s hand lingers over J.’s, the pad of his finger almost, almost touching skin, and he looks at the bruises and the metal ring in the middle of J.’s harness just begging to be pulled, and his blood sings, and he wants — 

He _wants_.

And suddenly, it terrifies him.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he murmurs, and lets his hand slip from J.’s and down from the table. He sits back, takes a deep centering breath, and looks away. “Sorry.”

He can see J. shrug out of the corner of his eye, and doesn’t look up to search for proof of disappointment. 

“No harm, no foul,” J. says, siddling out of the booth, “but you’re missing out. I’m here every Saturday night, baby. Some Fridays, too. Come find me? Oh, and.” 

One pale hand intrudes into Bruce’s line of sight. It snatches the remains of Bruce’s drink and pulls the glass away. 

Bruce looks up just in time to catch J. finishing it in one long swig, throat bobbing. 

“You’re buying,” J. says, and winks, and turns away.

Bruce watches him until he melts into the gloom of bodies, green hair and body glittering, long legs clicking confidently against the floor, and leather g-string showing off a tight, round, perky little — 

_Fuck._

“Sorry for the cockblock,” Selina says, exasperated, “but I basically just pulled you from the brink of disaster. That would’ve been — Bruce.”

Bruce clears his throat and forces his eyes to unglue from the spot where J. disappeared. 

“Who _was_ that guy?” he breathes, running a sweaty hand over his hair. His heart hammers, rattled in a way it rarely is when he’s not actively putting himself in danger, except... 

Except he isn’t all that sure that he wasn’t, just now.

God. 

“Trouble,” Selina tells him sharply. “And not of the good kind.” 

“You know him?”

“He’s been coming here almost as long as I have. You don’t want someone like that for your first submissive, trust me on that.”

Bruce looks at her, heart tight. “What are you saying? Have you and he — have you two ever —-”

“God no.” Selina actually shudders at the thought. “He’s far too gay for that, and besides, I wouldn’t want him for a sub even if he wasn’t obsessed with dick.” 

“Why? He seemed pretty…” Bruce swallows. “Eager.”

“Well, yeah.” Selina traces the rim of her glass with a diamond-tipped glove. “That’s actually part of the problem. J.’s not just _eager_ , he’s insatiable. Notorious for it — wasn’t just a bluff when he asked if you can keep up with him. Not a lot of Doms can. Guy’s never been collared, and his partners usually give up after only a few scenes. He keeps bitching about how he doesn’t even need a safeword ‘cause no one can bring him to his limits. He’s _hardcore_ , Bruce. I know him well enough to tell that he needs it on a whole other level than most of us. There’s some heavy baggage there, and that’s — that’s not good for your first go-round.”

And now Bruce _really_ wishes he still had his drink. His fingers wind around the empty glass, and he runs his thumb over the lipstick smear J’s left there like a kiss. 

His face goes hot. He wonders if Selina can tell the effect her words are having on him, which is definitely the opposite of what she intended. 

“Besides, he’s a Brat,” she declares.

Bruce looks up at her. “He’s a grown man.”

“No, a Brat, as in — a type of submissive.”

The spark of thrill tugs at Bruce even more urgently now, and he glances at the lipstick mark again. “Oh.”

“Yeah. _Super_ bad idea when you’re just starting out. It takes a whole special type of mentality and experience to get into that sort of play. And J. might _say_ he’ll be patient, that he’ll hold off on the brattiness till you’re ready, but don’t buy into that. He can’t actually promise anything ‘cause when the play starts for good, chances are he won’t be able to control himself. He’s — it’s bad news all around.”

“Right,” Bruce mumbles, and it comes out hoarse. 

Selina rolls her eyes, then pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of subs ‘round here who’ll want to have a go with you. I could introduce you to someone more suitable if you do want to give it a try.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Bruce doesn’t reply. He glances to the side, towards where J. disappeared just minutes ago. He can’t find a head of green curls anywhere in the crowd, and feels a stab of something ugly. 

“I think I need another drink,” he whispers. 

“Bad idea,” Selina advises. “Better stay clear-headed if you wanna play.” 

“I don’t —”

Then a sudden rush of louder noise makes them both look up, and Selina smiles. “Saved by the bell. Come on, the demo’s about to start.”

Bruce follows her out of the booth and towards the podium. A small group is already congregating there, and Bruce is relieved to find he’s not the only one wearing the deer-in-headlights look tonight — there’s at least five other people, three women and two men, who appear similarly starstruck. 

One of them catches Bruce’s eye and stares at him, until his companion — a heavyset man wearing a similar harness to J.’s, plus a leather hat and pants — whispers an urgent _Stop_. 

Bruce hides a smile, turning to the stage. 

“Bet you hear that all the time, but you look like Christian Gray,” someone whispers. 

He looks to his left, and finds a short young woman gazing up at him with a bright grin. Her blond hair is caught in two pigtails falling down her shoulders, her painted face is half-covered by a fetching domino mask, and she’s dressed like some creative cross between a harlequin and a nurse. 

“Christian Gray looks like me,” Bruce whispers back to her, and she giggles. 

“That actually wouldn’t surprise me.” She siddles a little closer, and leans over Bruce to blow Selina a kiss. “Hiya, Kitty.”

“Hey Harls.” Selina smiles warmly at the woman. “Bruce, this is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. She’s a psychiatrist at Arkham.”

“Really?” Bruce gives the unassuming woman another, curious once-over. 

“Freshly certified!” Dr. Quinzel puffs up her barely-covered chest. 

“I’ve actually been meaning to take a closer look into Arkham,” Bruce tells her, mind immediately changing gears. “Would you have some time to sit down and talk?”

“Oh, honey, for you? I’ll make all the time in the world, just you say when —”

“He’s not flirting, Harls,” Selina interjects. “He actually does mean business. He’s like that.”

“Aw shucks.” Dr. Quinzel pouts, looking up at Bruce accusingly. “Really?” 

Bruce’s cheeks go hot. “I only meant —” 

But then she laughs, loud and bright. “Just pulling your leg, hon. Kitty can get us in touch. Call me! No need to keep to my office hours.”

“Thanks,” Bruce tells her, but she’s already bouncing off — and onto the stage, where Kate of all people is now waiting, holding a long piece of rope. 

“Good to see some fresh blood around here,” she says, locking her gleaming, amused eyes on Bruce. “You guys having a good time?”

There’s a few enthusiastic cheers, and Kate smiles, playing with the rope between her fingers. 

“Good,” she says. “Here’s hoping this demo will make things even more fun, and most of all — that it’ll make the fun safer.”

Then, she turns to Harleen, and touches her cheek. 

“Ready, pet?” she asks softly. 

Harleen leans into her touch, and her smile beams trust. “Born ready, babe.”

Bruce leans to Selina and whispers, “Didn’t know Kate had a girlfriend.” 

“Far as I know, she doesn’t,” Selina whispers back. “Harley’s with Pamela Isley, but Pam lets her branch out and do scenes with others every now and then.” Her smile cuts into something sharp. “Including with yours truly.” 

Bruce’s mind glides right over _that_ enticing mental image as it stumbles on the name, and his eyes go wide. 

“Did you mean _doctor_ Pamela Isley?”

“The very same.” Selina grins. “And before you ask, yes, I can get you in touch with her, too. Now, think you’re gonna be okay on your own for a bit?”

Bruce nods, gaze slipping back to Kate and Harleen up on the stage. “Yeah, I —”

“Excellent. Have fun.” Selina pats his shoulder one last time, and then slips away and into the crowd. 

Bruce watches her go, and then looks back to the stage again to find Kate circling Harleen with the rope. She winds it tight around Harleen’s body slowly, coil by coil, knot by knot. Everything about her now is steady and focused, from her movements to her voice as she explains what she’s doing to the small but captive audience. Her entire aura projects assurance and quiet, easy authority, of the kind that seems impossible to fake — or, at least, it’s always been that way for Bruce.

It’s not the first time he’s envied Kate. But it’s the first time that the feeling gets so ugly, and strikes him quite so hard. 

He looks at Harleen, and studies her face — a picture of easy, relaxed trust. She leans into every touch like a flower to the sun but keeps herself perfectly still otherwise, just like her temporary mistress ordered. 

No fight. No rebellion. Just obedience, and playfulness caught in her eyes and nowhere else. 

It closes up Bruce’s throat for all the wrong reasons. 

_This_ is why he can’t let himself go — not even here. This right here is the real reason, and something that he can’t share with anyone, not even Selina. It’s not the silliness of the whole thing, not the bells and whistles that always struck him as pompous and unnecessary, not the formality of the scene and the air of ridiculousness inherent in it. 

This. 

He doesn’t _want_ easy and relaxed. He looks at Harleen, standing there eager and pliant and docile, and he knows, deep in his gut, that it wouldn’t work for him. He wouldn’t be able to find any more satisfaction in it than he gets from his regular hookups. It’s too neat, too imbalanced, too — 

Meek. 

Which isn’t to say it isn’t beautiful, or sexy. It’s all those things, and more, making Bruce’s jealousy all the worse for it because it drives home how much he can’t let himself have, and how ugly his needs truly are, deep down. 

It would never work for him the way Selina expects it to. Doesn’t matter what she says; he can never let himself go enough to even try, not when he looks at Kate and Harleen and feels — like this. No matter how much he might think he needs it, no matter how much he _wants_. 

Bruce is far too angry for that. 

He really shouldn’t have come. This is only making things worse, making him burn and tingle in all the wrong ways. If he leaves now, maybe he can still catch a fight down in the docks.

It won’t be enough.

But it’ll be something.

He’s just about ready to turn away and leave, when —

“Excuse me, officer? I’ve been a very bad boy.” 

_Oh no._

Bruce risks a glance to the side. J.’s standing incredibly close, just shy of a touch, and his bright eyes are hooded as he looks up at Bruce, smiling that sharp crooked smile. 

Something warm spills in Bruce’s chest, and he barely manages to look away. 

“You don’t give up easy, do you?” he says quietly.

“Not if the prize is worth the hassle. Speaking of which, I couldn’t help but notice your Cerberus has let you slip the leash.” 

“She warned me against you.” 

“Oh, I just bet she did. But you’re a big boy, aren’t you? You can make up your own mind.” The smile is there in J.’s amused voice, and Bruce struggles not to look. “Now, is it just me, or is this party a yawnfest?” 

Bruce holds in a snort. “That’s not very respectful.” 

“I’m not a very respectful person, Brucie. I could do with a bit of discipline.”

 _God._ Bruce closes his eyes, letting a shiver run through him all the way down to his toes. 

This is bad. He should get out of here now. 

“I have a standing reservation here, you know.” J.’s whisper burns hot in his ear. “A room all my own, booked for the whole night.”

“How generous of Oz,” Bruce whispers back. His voice doesn’t waver, but only just, and he can feel his resolve slipping. 

“It is, isn’t it? He’s all about rewarding loyal customers. And I can be _very_ loyal… but I gotta warn you, I’m nothing like dear old Harley up there. My loyalty doesn’t come cheap. You’re gonna have to work for it.” There’s a pause, a deeper breath. “You’re gonna have to win me.”

Bruce swallows, and it tastes like liquid fire going down.

_Leave. Now._

“And how do I do that?” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth, still watching the women up on the stage. “How do I win you?”

“Oh well, now, that depends.” There’s just the barest whisper of a touch, J.’s fingers glancing off Bruce’s. “But I’ve got a good feeling about you. Think you’ve got what it takes?” 

Bruce hesitates in a last ditch attempt to douse the fire in his blood. 

“Frankly, I don’t know,” he whispers. “Selina wasn’t kidding. I’m new at this.”

“But surely you know how to fuck?” 

Bruce’s cock, already filling with blood again, twitches and throbs. 

“Yes,” he whispers, risking a sideways glance at J. “I know how to fuck.”

J.’s smile spills wide and pleased, and his eyes light up with playful sparks. “Fabulous. We can start with that and work our way up,” he purrs. “I can teach you, darling. We can take things slow. But if I’m right, and I usually am, you won’t want to keep it slow for long.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Let’s just say I saw something in your eyes that I liked. So? Wanna blow this popsicle stand and have some _real_ fun?”

Bruce looks at the stage, but both Kate and Harleen are entirely engrossed in one another and don’t seem to have room in their minds for anyone else. Selina is nowhere to be seen. The small crowd around them are watching the demo, or each other. 

No one’s looking at Bruce.

Except J., who, when Bruce glances back to him, licks over his lips and holds out his hand. 

Bruce’s pulse is slamming now, throbbing in his neck, and that same spark of heat is back in full force. He studies the sharp edge in J.’s smile, and the challenge in his eyes, and everything inside him wants to respond. 

Fuckfuck _fuck_. 

“It’s just gonna be sex,” Bruce whispers to him, urgently. “Okay? Nothing more. I’m not gonna be hurting you, so don’t ask.” 

J.’s eyes search his, surprisingly sharp and calculating for someone glittering like he’s been dumped in a vat of fairydust. 

“Can you go rough?” he asks. 

Bruce looks at him, up and down. “I really shouldn’t.” 

“And you always do everything you should, do you?” 

It’s all Bruce can do to stifle a smile. “You got me there.” 

“Well then.” The slash of J.’s smile sharpens into a point when it tugs up at one corner. He’s still holding out his hand. “Coming?” 

The choice, already made, settles in Bruce with a click of finality. It changes the world around him ever so slightly: the club lights appear both darker and lighter all at once, the contrasts more pronounced, the music and noise sharper and more distinct in his ears. He recognizes the feeling for what it is, and breathes out, letting frustrated tension uncoil bit by bit in anticipation of what’s to come. 

He should run. But he knows he won’t, and gives in to it with something like relief, because he’s about to have sex, and that’s it. It’s not gonna be like sex with any of his other partners — he can’t afford to be that naive — but at this point, he knows his limits, and knows how not to cross them. He _will_ keep himself in check no matter what happens. No matter what J. tries, if he tries anything. He’s strong enough for that, at least.

And maybe, with any luck, it’ll help him. J.’s eyes seem to promise as much, if only for a few precious moments. Which is all Bruce needs, and all he can hope for besides. 

Bruce reaches out, and lets his fingers linger over J.’s wrist. 

He grabs it. And holds. 

“Lead the way.” 

And J. does. 

It’s a strange picture they make, Bruce thinks, distantly, in that weird detached way he experiences sometimes when he’s not quite processed what’s happening to him. J.’s leading him, weaving them a clean path through the heaving crowd; but Bruce’s got a hand closed around his skinny wrist in a way that he recognizes, even now, as possessive. 

Push, and pull. Almost as if he’s chasing J. already, and J.’s pretending to escape. 

That only makes the colors around Bruce clearer, the angles sharper, the thrum of his own blood louder in his ears. Selina’s warnings still bounce around his head but they’re growing dimmer now, and only stir up the cocktail of excitement in his gut. Which is a warning sign all on its own, and he registers that, but even those alarm bells ring muted in his ears, as though the sensual beat drowns them out — as though Bruce’s not entirely _there_ — as though the sliver of J.’s skin he touches is the only thing keeping him in his own body. 

The odd detached-ness of it all only intensifies the moment they leave the main floor, go down a flight of darkly lit stairs, and turn into a narrow side corridor. It’s lit with blacklight, and all at once J.’s back blazes in the dark like a galaxy, smears and swirls and spatters of multicolor fluorescent paint likening him to a fairy jumped out of a storybook to tempt Bruce to mischief. 

He looks magical like this, and so mesmerizing Bruce can hardly remember to breathe. God, he wants to _touch_. 

Except, then J. stops by one of the doors lining the corridor, marked in neon as number 3, and Bruce is so engrossed in him that he nearly walks into him.

J. turns to grin at Bruce, his smile an uncanny Cheshire-cat crescent of light over the makeup that now glows bright and otherworldly, before he fishes a keycard from somewhere in his leather gear. 

“Here we are,” he says. “Home sweet home.” 

He opens the door, and lets Bruce in.

It’s red, is the first thing Bruce notices about the room. Red and plush, and tacky, the kind of room you’d expect from a Hollywood version of a brothel. Especially the bed — large enough to fit at least five people comfortably, it dominates the room, and for a moment, it’s all Bruce can focus on. 

Then J. closes the door behind them with a quiet click, and just like that, all the noise from above drops away. The effect is sudden, like being sealed in a pressure chamber, all noise one minute and pindrop silence the next. 

So the private rooms are soundproof. Nice one, Oz. 

“Vulgar, isn’t it?” J. says behind him. 

His voice sounds much more musical now that there’s no noise for it to drown in. Musical, but strained, too, and there’s something magnetic about the tightness Bruce can detect underneath — almost as if J.’s struggling to keep something in just as much as Bruce is.

His stiletto heels click as he moves, strutting around Bruce and coming to sit on the edge of the bed. His long legs stretch over the floor towards Bruce as he crosses them demurely at the ankles. 

“Don’t you just love it?” he teases.

He looks even thinner in the warm, subdued reddish light. There’s a dip in his narrow hips, accentuating the curve of bone, and it’s so easy for Bruce to imagine putting his hands there and holding on. 

“It’s a bit much,” Bruce comments, looking away. Now that his eyes are adjusting, he’s noticing other things scattered around the room, like the shelf full of dildos to the right of the bed, or the selection of chains, cuffs, whips, floggers and paddles displayed neatly on the wall. 

Heat spikes in his blood, and he turns away before it can burn any hotter.

“Oh sure. It’s gaudy, like a Victorian vaudeville. Puts you in just the right mood though.” J’s voice captures Bruce’s attention again. “Unless you don’t enjoy a bit of theatre with your sex, in which case you should tell me right now. It’s better that we part as friends.”

Bruce looks down into his eyes, and finds the same sharp, unwavering challenge there that seduced him into this room in the first place. 

_He’s already playing_ , he realizes. _The scene’s started the moment he saw me._

The thought is hot in his throat, and lights up his blood all over again. 

Fuck, but he wants this. He wants that challenge to be real, at the very least, and by now he’s pretty damn sure it is. 

That’s not gonna make things any easier, but — 

_It’s just sex. Nothing more. I can do this._

“You know what they say,” Bruce says, softly, letting his hands slip into his pockets. “All the world’s a stage.”

J.’s painted mouth stretches into a wide, delighted grin. “And all the men and women merely players,” he trills, “with all _sorts_ of exits and entrances. Want to explore one or two?”

Bruce smirks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Maybe, but shouldn’t there be a contract first? Some sort of negotiation? Selina gave me a whole lecture about it.” 

J. waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t think we need to bother with all that tonight. We’re just testing the waters, aren’t we? There’ll be plenty of time for the formalities later, if…”

“If?”

“If,” J. stresses with a smile. “I told you. You’re gonna have to win me.”

“Safeword first,” Bruce insists. “I won’t budge on that.” 

J. snorts, and lets his legs spread wide open. He leans forward, on his knees, staring that same pointed challenge up at Bruce. Everything about the way he moves now comes across as controlled, and rigidly so — almost choreographed. Much like his voice, it’s like his body is struggling to keep itself together, fearing what might come charging out if it doesn’t. 

Bruce wonders if it’s unintentional, or if J.’s playing some of it up to invite Bruce to take him apart. 

Either way, it’s. 

It’s working. 

“I won’t need it,” J. says. 

“I might.” Bruce takes a step forward. “Your safeword, or I’m leaving.” 

“You won’t. Look at you, you’re so revved up, if you got any more tense you’d snap right in half. Besides, why would I need a safeword if we’re _only_ about to fuck?” J.’s smile curves. “You can go on ahead and touch me, by the way. In case you’re looking for permission.”

“I said.” Emboldened, and electrified in all the rightwrong ways, Bruce closes the distance between them and stands in the open vee of J.’s legs. He reaches out, and skims light fingers along the pointy line of J.’s jaw. “Tell me your safeword.” 

He’s close enough now that he can see J.’s pupils grow, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. His hand brushes against J.’s ear, over the delicate shell, and then down to his neck. 

His skin is cold, but that’s fine. Bruce can warm it up. 

“No,” J. says.

“Then I’ll choose one for you. Red to stop, yellow to pause, green to keep going. Is that clear?”

“Oh, yes, very imaginative.” J. rolls his eyes, the edge of his smirk sharpening. “Richie Rich’s certainly done his research.”

“I’m thorough like that.” Bruce leans down just enough so he can close his hand around the back of J.’s neck, flirting with danger as much as he’s flirting with J. “Alternatively, tap any surface three times if you want me to stop. Twice if you want to pause. Once for green. Is that clear?”

“Oh?” The gleam in J.’s eyes is full of anticipation. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Is that clear?” Bruce’s grip around J.’s neck tightens. “Answer me.” 

He isn’t quite sure where the confidence in his voice is coming from — he certainly doesn’t feel much of it, not yet, and in fact, there’s a little voice at the back of his mind insisting he looks like an idiot. But this feels like the fighting rings in all the right ways, and just because he can’t explain it doesn’t make it any less true. 

J. said he wanted it rough. 

God, Bruce _needs_ this to work. 

J. giggles, and then gasps when Bruce squeezes the back of his neck — not hard, but hard enough to signal his strength. J. blinks and looks up at him, reading him, searching, and Bruce does the same, desperate for signs that he’s right. 

Then, J. lifts his hand, and pats — once — against the bedsheets. 

“Good,” Bruce whispers, and pulls him off the bed and down to his knees.

Or at least, he tries to. And J.’s knees do hit the floor. Soon as they do, though, he does some slippery maneuver that’s got him spinning out of Bruce’s grasp, and then he’s right back on his feet, and laughing, and twirling away. 

“Oops,” he sings, and does a ridiculous little pirouette. “Guess you gotta try harder, Mr. Wayne.”

At this point, if it were anyone else, Bruce thinks he’d start having doubts. But J.’s easy grin radiates every bit of experience Selina claimed he has. It telegraphs, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s not actually trying to evade Bruce, but that he’s playing, and warming up, and inviting Bruce to join the fun. 

And beyond that, there’s his eyes. And the hunger in them, shining through vivid and clear, burning him from the inside out. 

Bruce knows that kind of hunger. He recognizes how it screams under the studied ease in J.’s body, controlled for now, but only just, and threatening chaos once it’s unleashed. His own heart thuds in response, lit up and excited in a way he’s barely able to hide now, and he almost grins back, stunned to realize that his gut feeling might actually be right. 

Holy fuck, but he _needs_ it to be right.

Except, he’s not quite there yet — not in a place where he can accept what J.’s offering and lose himself in it the way he wants to. The next few minutes make that painfully clear. He’s stiff and awkward about it when he tries to lunge after J., the crust of lingering doubt and self-consciousness making him clumsy, and feeling doubly so when J. laughs in his face, spinning away. 

Bruce stops in the middle of the room, chest tight, his cheeks burning with shame. He knows what J. wants him to do, and he _wants_ to play along, but that acute bite of self-consciousness is too much. He can’t seem to make himself move. All at once it feels too silly — too childish — too playful for the way he feels right now, all urgent and raw and far too needy, too big and clumsy and unwieldy, and graceless and heavy next to the lithe slippery bastard baiting him.

“Sorry,” he starts. “Sorry. It’s just —”

“Brucie?”

Bruce breathes out, and closes his eyes.

“Give me a minute,” he asks.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then J. goes ahead and does something that proves Selina completely, horrendously wrong.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice low and careful in a way Bruce would never expect him to be, stepping up close enough that Bruce could catch him now if he tried. “It’s all right, big guy. It’s only you and me in here. There’s no one here to judge you.”

Bruce lets out a snort, running a nervous hand over his hair as he tries to keep the burn from his face. He isn’t quite ready to meet J.’s eyes. 

“I’m here to judge me,” he admits, quietly, and wonders where the fuck this honesty is coming from. He shakes his head, and regroups to dispel that moment of vulnerability as quickly as he can before it sets and turns into something too big to push through. “Look, I meant what I said. I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

J. smiles. It looks — not quite gentle. Bruce doesn’t think he can imagine this guy looking gentle. But understanding, and just a bit sympathetic, too.

He touches two fingers to Bruce’s cheek, and presses in. 

“This is foreplay,” he whispers. “We’re just playing, yes? To get us both in the mood. I’m not asking you to hurt me. You only need to catch me, and then I’ll be all yours, and you can do whatever you want to me. Is that okay? Or do you prefer we get right to the action?”

And here, for a hot, weak moment, Bruce is tempted to say yes. 

Except. 

_You’re gonna have to win me._

“One more try?” he suggests, touching J.’s fingers where they rest on his face. “I don’t want to give up on the first hurdle.”

“There’s that fighting spirit,” J. lilts, amused now, and steps closer. “I like that. I only have two requests.” 

“Yeah?” Bruce manages, swallowing hard. His erection strains in his underwear, and he almost whines when J. steps in close enough to trap it against their bodies. 

“Bind me,” he whispers into Bruce’s ear. “Even if it’s just my hands. I need you to do that for me. And when you fuck me, Mr. Wayne…” Bruce shudders when J. leans in, and touches his cheek with the flick of his tongue. “I need you to fuck me _hard_.”

… Yeah, that. 

That just about does it. 

Bruce lunges for him again, and catches him by the metal ring attached to the middle of J.’s chest harness. 

But then, just as he’s about to pull J to his knees again, his fingers slip. The metal ring is _oiled_. J. laughs again, loud and trembling and free, and waltzes out of reach.

“Third time’s the charm?” he teases, backing up to the opposite wall. 

He’s hard, too — his lingerie does little to hide it. It barely even covers the bulge now pushing against the material, teasing glimpses of skin. 

Bruce swallows, and looks up into J.’s eyes. 

J. pats, once, against the wall. A reminder, an encouragement, and an invitation all in one. 

And just like before in the main hall, Bruce’s stomach bottoms out and then rights itself again, and the world rearranges into new resolve. He breathes in the musky smell of the room, already thick with their sweat. And something else besides. 

Anticipation. 

And it feels _right_.

Slowly, Bruce shrugs out of his suit jacket and drops it to the floor. Then he turns his back on J. and goes over to the collection of toys on the wall next to the bed. 

He takes his time, not even pretending to struggle with the choice, until finally, he picks up a set of velcro restraints. Tame, especially in comparison to everything else on display, and soft enough that they shouldn’t hurt, which might be frustrating for J., but, well. Bruce doesn’t exactly trust himself with anything more extreme, and definitely not this early in the game.

Besides, there’s a challenge in taking the most vanilla toys in the collection and seeing if he can make them work on someone like J. Which Bruce wants them to. 

Very, very much. 

The thought strikes hot, sending a shiver to spill down his body, and maybe, with J.’s warm voice still burning his ear, that’s enough to get him started. He turns back to J. with the restraints in hand, and hopes he doesn’t sound quite as unsure as he still, deep down, feels about all this. 

“Why don’t we try this again.”

“Sometime this year would be good,” J. goads. He’s lounging against the wall now, a picture of ease, but Bruce can see the veins straining under his skin. He can see the bulge in his provocative underwear, and the dark of his pupils.

He’s ready. And, maybe, so is Bruce. 

He advances, and J. springs away at the last moment, ducking under Bruce’s arm. He laughs, and this time, Bruce’s self-consciousness gives way to determination to cut it short.

He’s quicker reaching for J. this time, and aims for his hand. His fingers glance off J.’s, and he almost closes in —

J. tugs and pulls free, leaving Bruce with nothing but his purple glove dangling limp in his hand. 

“That’s one way to undress,” Bruce comments, wryly.

J. giggles. “Gotta be quicker, old man.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh, are you? My apologies. It’s just that you move a bit like my dear geriatric uncle. _After_ he had a stroke.”

“I can still take you, punk.”

“Then prove it.”

There’s a beat when they just stand there, grinning at each other across the room.

Then Bruce moves again. J. sidesteps him neatly, easily, and tries to roll over the bed, and laughs wildly when Bruce catches him around the ankle to send him sprawling across it.

He kicks at Bruce, and Bruce lets him get away. He rolls across the bed himself, and nearly pins J. to the floor when J. tries to get to his feet. J. laughs again, breathlessly, but it takes him longer to get away this time, and Bruce’s hands slide over his glittery sides, over his pronounced naked ribs, and then over the firm curve of his ass, all hot, exposed skin begging to be touched.

Bruce glances down at his palms, now covered in glitter and bits of body paint. They tingle with the brief taste of J.’s skin, scalding his nerve-endings. His breath comes short, and he doesn’t wait to catch it before he takes off after J. again, chasing the laughing bastard around the room, biting down on his cheek to hide his own smile.

They dance like this for a bit, back and forth, this way and that, around the bed and over it, grasping and touching and letting go. Bruce can’t count how many times his fingers close around a part of J.’s body, only for J. to slip away, and each time only makes him that much more determined, especially since J. refuses to slow down and make things easier for him. 

Except, then, Bruce begins to notice that his touches begin to linger. That he’s able to hold on for just a bit longer, and touch more of J. at a time. Press him up against him, and hold on, and feel the slide of his body on his, before J. escapes again, breath going hard, his laughter changing pitch into something lower. Quieter. Husky.

His own breath changes to match, and when he catches J.’s eyes again, he reads the message in them loud and clear. 

It’s time.

He puts everything he’s got into his next attempt, and then — _finally_ — he’s catching J. around his middle with both arms, pushing him into a wall with a hard thud. J. tries to push him back, but Bruce holds on and bears him down, so they end up sliding down the wall to the floor. 

It doesn’t stop there. The very next moment they’re rolling around and play-wrestling, pushing and pulling, rubbing up against each other. J.’s slippery like an eel in Bruce’s hands, all glitter and fluorescent paint that rubs off on Bruce as he tries to hold him down with his entire body — carefully. He doesn’t actually want to crush J., who’s so much smaller and thinner than he is, and at that point, Bruce still tries to be gentle, keeping it playful, holding back. 

But J. isn’t. He gives it his all when he bucks and wriggles and kicks with all the instincts of a survivor, and some truly nasty moves that tell Bruce he’s a vicious fucker when cornered for real. 

And through it all, he laughs, breathless and wild, and keeps laughing when Bruce does his best to grab him by his hands, his arms, his legs, his hair. He laughs when he catches the front of Bruce’s shirt, and then starts tearing it off, buttons popping all over the floor. 

And he laughs when Bruce grabs him by the back of his hair, pulls on it hard enough to arch his neck, and bites his throat. 

“That’s it,” J. breathes, heavy, dark, lust-hoarse. “Now you’re getting it.”

Bruce pulls on his hair again, and kisses him.

And it’s amazing, he thinks vaguely, how J. can open up for him instantly, letting out a keening noise that vibrates through Bruce’s entire body, and _still_ pretend to resist him. He wriggles under Bruce as they kiss, deep, thorough and brutal, and sighs and moans quietly into Bruce, inviting him, trying to tear his shirt off, and pushing into Bruce with his entire body as much as he’s pushing away.

That only provokes Bruce to pin him down harder, and grab him, and pull at him, and hold him down. 

Bruise him. Mark him. 

Win him. 

By the time he tears his mouth off J.’s, his shirt is hanging half-off him, completely undone, and J.’s panting against him, grinning, staring up at him with wild, dark eyes.

“No rules against kissing?” Bruce whispers, because at this point it’s either distraction or losing it completely. 

“I’m no hooker and this ain’t _Pretty Woman_.” J. strains under Bruce, trying to arch, throwing his head back. “Now, you gonna let me suck your dick or what?”

“God,” Bruce groans, and moves up so he can sit on J.’s chest. 

He pins down J.’s arms with his own knees, hard enough so J. doesn’t get the chance to escape again but — he hopes — not hard enough to do any real damage. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he was in such a hurry to undo his fly, and fumbled it like a horny teenager that he never truly got to be. Probably with Selina, and he remembers her laughing, teasing, offering to help. 

Except this really is nothing like that, other than J. laughs, too. 

Then he opens his mouth, wide, as if to say, _Come on in._

“Fuck,” Bruce breathes again, panting. He’s so hard he very nearly comes just from taking his cock out and holding it steady, and has to brace himself, one hand squeezing at the base to the point of pain and the other going back to grasp J.’s hair in a desperate bid for an anchor.

He closes his eyes, and counts to three.

And then he moves over J.’s chest to sit up closer, holds J.’s head back, and rests the tip of his cock on J.’s bottom lip. 

“Of course you’re hung,” J. whispers, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of the head as they move. “Some people have all the luck.”

“You’d rather I was smaller?” Bruce asks. 

In response, J. sucks the head of Bruce’s cock into his mouth, licking over the slit like it’s a lollipop. It feels far too good already, and Bruce fights a shudder watching him, transfixed by the way J.’s red lips stretch open, obviously expecting more. 

Bruce’s every instinct is to give it to him, to sink in all the way, all at once, and take what’s on offer. He’s big, but J.’s mouth is wide, almost elastic in its expressiveness and obviously experienced, and he thinks, it’d be _easy_. 

Except, it wouldn’t, not really. And Bruce is still _just_ coherent enough to know to take things slow and let J. adjust to the fit, no matter what the smug bastard might say. 

That and, well. He does want to last long enough to make an impression, and to win this man, whatever the hell that means. 

So he glides in nice slow, and J. takes it. He takes it beautifully, inviting every bit of skin Bruce gives him, his mouth managing to curl just enough at the edges to communicate a smile before he fits it tight around Bruce’s cock. 

“God,” Bruce sighs, pulling out until only his head ends up caught between J.’s lips, and then nudging his cock back in. 

He does this again and again, pushing a little further each time, giving more and more and more, watching as spit pearls around the corners of J.’s mouth and drips down his cheeks. J. encourages him with little humming noises that vibrate from his throat and over Bruce’s skin, and though it soon becomes clear that Bruce’s girth might be more than he’s used to, he never stops, and never tries to move away. 

Except, when Bruce almost pulls out again, J. draws back and lets the head of Bruce’s cock slip out of his mouth entirely. He grins up at Bruce, lipstick smeared, mouth wet with spit, eyes bright and alert and mocking.

“Thanks for the treat,” he says. “It’s delicious. But surely you can do better than that?”

This, again, is exactly the right thing to say. Bruce leans over him, low, and grabs him by the hair. 

“You’ll take what I give you and you’ll like it,” he breathes into J.’s mouth, quietly astounded at the way his voice comes out sure and clear when everything about him feels anything but. “And if you want more? You beg.” 

Soon as he says it Bruce feels like an utter tool again, and almost backs off — but then, like an animal sensing weakness, J. bucks under him again and swings his legs as if to kick. This forces Bruce to push his weight down over J.’s chest to keep him from slipping away, and he’s so grateful he could kiss this man senseless because it’s painfully obvious what J. is doing: he’s distracting him, so Bruce doesn’t get eaten alive by his own mind. 

He grabs J.’s face in both hands to keep him still and kisses him, tasting his own precome over the lipstick and glitter on J.’s lips. 

“Beg,” he repeats as everything inside him trembles at the seams. 

J. giggles into him, but calms down when Bruce kisses him again. 

His voice is all sharp, playful irony when he says, “Please will you fuck my throat, Mr. Wayne?”

At the same time, his right hand pats once against the floor. He’s already tilting his head back.

“And pull my hair,” he whispers. 

Bruce swallows. “I’ll hurt you.” 

“Not if I ask for it,” J. whispers. “Not if I need it. You’ll be helping me. Please.” 

He lies back, and opens up wide. 

Bruce shuts his eyes for a moment and counts down from ten, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, until he’s sure he has full control over every muscle in his body. Only then does he let himself sink his cock back into J.’s mouth — slowly and carefully — and this time, he goes in until he hits the back of J.’s throat. 

Which relaxes for him. So he can keep going. 

Jesus. 

He almost doesn’t dare, except J.’s throat flexes against him, and J.’s eyes blaze into his, and the plea in them for once shines bright enough to crack through the unflappable veneer. 

He needs this. Maybe even more than Bruce does. 

Okay. Okay.

Bruce goes in steady, pulling out a bit before inching back in and nudging past the wet barrier of J.’s throat. Not all the way, just the tip so a good half of his length gets engulfed in J.’s mouth — and then, soon as he knows he can keep himself in check and that J. really can take it, he sets a slow, steady pace, grabbing J.’s hair and pulling hard to keep his head from moving. 

And god, it’s good. It’s very good. J. doesn’t seem to have any gag reflex to speak of, and he swallows around Bruce on purpose, and his entire throat and mouth vibrate with noises of pleasure. He keeps himself still under Bruce, letting Bruce’s weight pin him down, letting Bruce’s hand pull at his hair, letting his cock slide in and out, up and down his hot, hot throat. 

His eyes are closed, and more spit drips down from his mouth. He’s beautiful like this, and Bruce wouldn’t be able to look away from him now if he tried.

He starts going faster — not by much, but enough so J. notices the difference. J.’s answering moan spurs him on, and he lets himself pick up the pace just a bit more, just a bit further, right up until the pleasure builds up enough to push him to the brink. 

Then he stops, and slowly pulls all the way out. 

He sits there, chest heaving, and watches as J. slowly moves his jaw and blinks his eyes open. They’re glazed, and take a moment to focus. 

“Wha?” he tries, and Bruce’s blood sings at the scratchy hoarseness in his voice. He sounds _wrecked_.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Bruce tells him softly, and eases his grip on J.’s hair. He strokes it, smoothing over the curling strands, and then running his fingers over J.’s hot blushing cheek. “Green?” 

Something that was already beginning to coil tight in J. relaxes at that, clear enough for Bruce to see. His head falls back, and his eyes shut, and his mouth eases into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Green,” he whispers. “Remember what I said.”

“I remember.” Bruce glances to the side, to where he dropped the velcro restraints next to J.’s discarded glove. 

Slowly, he moves off of J. The moment his left knee lets up from J.’s arm, J.’s smile grows. 

Then Bruce swings his right leg over him, effectively releasing him, and sure enough, J. bolts. 

Or tries to. He’s slower than before, perhaps by design or perhaps because the scene is getting to him. Nonetheless, he starts wiggling over the floor and struggling to his feet, giggling in a quiet, raspy way that sets Bruce’s blood on fire.

“You know the rules,” he rasps, glancing over his shoulder at Bruce. “Gotta catch me fi—” 

Bruce grabs the restraints in one hand, and then steps up and grabs J., too. He hauls him up by the middle and then throws him over one shoulder, still wriggling and kicking and giggling, and lets his hand linger and skim over the firm slope of J.’s ass.

He carries J. over to the bed, throws him on top of it, and immediately climbs over him again to pin him down with all his weight. 

“Caught you,” he whispers. 

“Then _do _something about it,” J. breathes.__

____

____

He surges up to kiss Bruce the very moment Bruce leans down to do the same. They meet halfway, mouths clashing open, and then Bruce bears down and J. resists just enough before melting into the mattress. His hands come up on both sides of Bruce’s face, and Bruce hisses into J.’s mouth when he feels sharp nails rake over his own skin. 

He bites J.’s bottom lip, hard, before pulling back, and wrestles J.’s hands into a firm hard grip. 

J. still moves and wriggles and struggles against him when Bruce, hands shaky and unsteady, ties up his wrists close together in a single cuff and then binds the restraints to one of the metal hooks conveniently bolted into the bedframe. The picture J. makes like this, arms stretched high over his head, wiry lean muscles straining, glitter and paint and makeup all smeared and hair a complete mess, stirs up enough confused lust and guilt that Bruce almost pauses again — 

“Tighter,” J. grits out, closing his eyes, breathing hard. 

“Yeah?” Bruce’s got to make sure. He can barely breathe, his pulse is so loud. 

“Need more,” J. whines. His arms pull again, testing the restraints, his whole body arching up into a tense, tense bow. “Need —” 

“What do you need? Tell me.” Bruce is already moving up J.’s body to his bound wrists to tighten the velcro around them until it bites into J.’s pale bruising skin. This is already pushing what they agreed on, but he can’t find it in himself to resist the desperation trembling in J.’s hoarse, abused voice. 

J. takes a moment, breathing, eyes closed. 

“Clamps,” he decides. “Top drawer.” 

_Clamps._ He means — 

Okay. Fuck. Okay. That’s _definitely_ a step beyond vanilla territory. But Selina did warn him, and Bruce can tell exactly what she meant now when he sees the tension in J.’s body, and the light in his eyes that’s gone just a little bit manic. 

Bruce wants to make it good for him. He wants to impress him, and failing that, to at least satisfy him enough that J. leaves the club tonight still thinking of him. 

He figures it begins by trusting J. to know what his body can and wants to handle. Compared to some of the other stuff he’s seen in the room so far, nipple clamps are still quite tame, and maybe that’s why J. has settled for them. 

And it’s not like Bruce is about to _hit_ him. Which he wouldn’t. He isn’t like that, and is never going to be. 

He stumbles over J. and off the bed, cock hard to the point of pain and bouncing against his stomach. J. giggles, catching a glimpse of it, and Bruce smiles as he opens the drawer. 

There’s so much stuff in here. Some of it he doesn’t recognize. But there’s also condoms, and some high-quality lube. 

_Thanks, Oz._

He grabs that, and a pair of clamps that look the least complicated — just two clasps connected by a thin silver chain — and lays them down on the bed beside J. Then, he shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off and gets rid of his shoes, socks, pants and underwear. Better take care of it now, before… 

He looks back to the bed and pauses, breath caught. 

J. is _staring_ at him, eyes wide open with shock that quickly gives way to admiration to dark, dark want. His mouth is half open, and he pulls at the restraints again, hips rolling from side to side in glaring frustration. 

“Fucking _unfair_ ,” he complains in a tight, hoarse voice. “You just couldn’t leave anything to the rest of us, could you?” 

Bruce can’t quite help a smirk. He knows he looks good, but since it’s little more than a byproduct of how he chooses to spend his time, he’d never thought much of other people finding him attractive. Not until he started chasing that chemical rush of forgetting that things like sex give him, and found that his body — to say nothing of his money — help quite a bit to get him there. 

This feels different. More significant, maybe, with more at stake than just a regular hookup. He _wants_ to impress J., more than he usually does with other people, and there’s that touch of self-consciousness again when he stands there under J.’s hungry stare and lets him look his fill. 

“Disgusting,” J. snaps, but there’s a lethal edge to his smile now, and his eyes are the darkest they’ve been since they entered the room. Bruce gives his cock a bracing stroke and gets back on the bed. 

“You look so hot like this,” he tells J., truthfully. He touches the belt of the leather lingerie. “How do I get this off?” 

“Figure it out, genius,” J. tells him, one eyebrow up in playful challenge. 

Just for that, Bruce grabs the clamps first. He’s never done anything like this before, but it looks straightforward enough, and the warmth in his chest shoots up like a firework when he fits the clamps over J.’s alert red nipples and J. sucks in a shaky breath. Bruce watches his face, heart in his throat, and the warmth spreads up to his mouth when he catches the wrinkles of tension in J.’s face smoothing into bliss as the clamps do their work on him. 

Okay. Okay. So far so good. J.’s lax, open expression lifts up any lingering guilt, and Bruce focuses his attention on J.’s lingerie with a burst of fresh, impatient energy. 

He takes advantage, and touches far more than he needs to as he feels his way around the tight leather, stifling a smile when he finds ticklish places along J’s ribs, hips and inner thighs. 

But then he finds the right clasps and the leather comes loose, opening on one side. Bruce peels it off, and takes a moment to sit back and just _admire_. 

J. looks a mess. His arms pull on the restraints as though he’s still chasing more pain from where they’re bruising his wrists, the sharp lines of his body have gone so taut that Bruce can count his bones through the skin, and he’s got glitter and paint and lipstick and sweat-runny makeup pretty much everywhere from when they rolled around together on the floor. His cock, so hard and leaking, is long and thin, much like the rest of him, and flushed an angry red as it tilts slightly hip-side. He’s clean-shaven even around his balls, and — J. bends his legs at the knees and brings them up to show himself off to Bruce — yes, and behind them, his perineum clean except for the glitter which somehow got even there. 

He’s beautiful, and Bruce can’t remember ever wanting anyone more. 

“We’ll leave on the rest,” Bruce decides, quietly astounded at the huskiness in his own voice. “What do you think?” 

“I _think_ ,” J. pants, “fucking _green_.” 

Bruce touches his knee, and then slides his hand down J.’s long leg over the stocking. Yeah, he’s definitely keeping that on, and the heels, and the harness. 

Time to play. 

He scoops up a generous dollop of lube and warms it up between his fingers. It’s definitely the high-end stuff, sheer and velvety on his hand, and smells faintly like cinnamon. Should make the glide nice and easy. 

Bruce fits himself between J.’s legs, enjoying the mounting impatience in both himself and J. more than he probably should. And then has to duck to narrowly avoid a heel to the eye when J. kicks out, communicating his impatience. 

Amused, Bruce grabs J.’s flailing leg and rests it over his shoulder. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna take care of you now.” 

“Hurry _up_.” 

Bruce kisses J.’s knobby ankle over the stocking, and brings a finger to tease the sensitive skin just around his hole. In the meantime, his thumb caresses up and down J.’s perineum, pressing in hard — 

“Just do it,” J. demands, trashing on the bed and once again nearly poking Bruce’s eye out. “Fuck me. Now.” 

Bruce groans, and sticks his slick finger inside. 

It goes in easy. Far, far too easy than it should be for someone so tight. Bruce’s thick finger sinks nearly all the way in with little resistance, and it feels like J.’s inner walls have already been — 

Bruce looks up into J.’s flushed, tense but smirking face. 

“Did you —” 

J. chuckles, a sharp, pointed, cruel sound. 

“After our chat at the booth, I went and did a little prep,” he says. “Just in case.” His head points to the side, towards the dildo shelf. 

Oh. Oh, shit. Instantly Bruce imagines J. sitting on the bed fingering himself, working himself open with one of those toys, just for this — just for him. 

And that’s. That’s. 

_God._

Before he knows it, Bruce is groaning and moving closer to J., and pushing three lubed fingers into him at once. J. moans loud and sweet, falling down on the bed before he arches up and off it again when Bruce finds and caresses his prostate. Bruce works him open relentlessly, seeking to pleasure far more than to prepare now that he knows he doesn’t have to. 

He means to take his time fingering J., to wind him up and coax him to the brink with just this — but all too soon, the sensation of J.’s hot body gripping him, and the sounds J.’s making, make that all but impossible. He needs this too, far too much. He gives it another minute as a challenge for himself more than anything, and then he’s securing both of J.’s legs over his shoulders and bearing down on him, letting his cock slide over J.’s as he rocks them both, just enough to take the worst of the edge off. 

And then he’s hurriedly tearing the condom wrapper and sliding the condom on, and lubing himself up, and grabbing the base of his cock with one hand and stilling J.’s hips with another — 

“Oh, god yes,” J. cries, and Bruce is tempted to join in. The room swims and he has to blink to keep himself in check. The pleasure’s just that good, and all the better for what seems like ages of build-up. 

He sinks in all the way in one long stroke, and then just stays there, his balls pressing against J.’s raised ass, letting them both adjust, bearing down on J., breathing deep, shutting his eyes so the sight beneath him doesn’t stir up anything too dark. 

It’s a close call. Far too close for comfort. He opens his eyes. 

J.’s staring right at him, so close now, and his eyes are glazed. His mouth is half-open. Bruce can count the fading bruises on his neck. 

On an impulse, he leans down and kisses each of them, and then fits his mouth against the biggest one to bite down, hard. 

J. bucks against him, pulling his arms, digging his legs into Bruce’s back. 

That’s when Bruce begins to move. 

He still means to go slow, already slightly addicted to J’s mounting impatience, but that’s impossible now. The slide of his cock in J.’s body feels too good. So instead he makes good on his promise and fucks J. hard and rough and quick, as hard as he can, until the bed shakes and rattles with them and the bedframe hits against the padded wall. He watches as J. lets go and relaxes into it, content to let Bruce take over and coast on his own pleasure; and that spurs Bruce to give him more of it, to go even harder, faster, deeper, and take this man apart. 

He doesn’t. He comes before he can. But maybe that’s okay, because as soon as his balls draw up and he realizes he won’t be able to stave it off for a minute longer, he grabs J.’s cock in one hand and gives it a couple of rough, furious tugs. 

And then, in a flash of inspiration, he grabs for the chain connecting the clamps on J.’s nipples and _pulls_. 

That does it. J. follows him over the edge a second later, crying out and spasming around Bruce with Bruce still twitching and throbbing and spilling his pleasure inside him, the world going whitehotbright. 

_Yes,_ he thinks, vague and hazy as his well-deserved orgasm pulses through him in wave after wave. His anger, his pain, this dark dark swirl inside his chest that never seems to go away — they’re all so distant now that they might as well not exist, leaving Bruce empty in the best way, tingling with lightheadedness and _presence_ , the here and now. 

He looks down, and finds J. with his eyes closed, mouth open, head lolled to the side as he lies there boneless and breathless, his chest rising and falling heavily and straining the harness. His inner muscles are still spasming madly, and gripping Bruce tight as if to hold on for as long as possible, to keep Bruce’s cock there inside while it’s still hard and full and pressed up against J.’s prostate, which surely must be oversensitized by now. 

Bruce feels all warm at that, and fights over his own haze of sweet exhaustion and oversensitivity to give J. another long, slow, deliberate thrust. 

J. gasps, so Bruce does it again, and rocks into him slowly until his cock is completely spent and soft and slips out of J. on its own. 

Slowly, he eases J.’s legs off his shoulders and down on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation he takes off J.’s shoes for him, too. He tugs the used condom off himself, ties it up and flicks it to the floor. 

Only then does he allow himself to collapse on the bed next to J., close but not quite touching, and rolls onto his back, and closes his eyes. 

He breathes, and feels, and lets the bed take his weight. While it lasts, he’s free, and gunshot echoes float far, far away. 

Until — 

“Brucie.” J.’s voice is quiet, and so much hoarser than it was before they started. 

Bruce peels his eyes open to look at him. 

“Could you?” J. whispers, and tugs at the cuffs. 

“Oh.” Bruce runs a hand over his face, still buzzing with the fading echoes of pleasure. “Yes, sure, hang on.” 

His limbs are rubber, but he forces himself to push through that and gets to his knees on the bed next to J.’s head. 

“Slow,” J. says, “not all at once.” 

“Okay.” Bruce starts with untangling the cuff from around the metal hook, and gently lays J.’s arms down over the pillows. Then he undoes the cuff holding his wrists together, slowly, just like J. asked him to. 

The bruises will definitely linger for another week. Bruce’s heart swoops with the knowledge, and goes tight in something he can’t pinpoint as either guilt or excitement, but which carries an unhealthy dose of both. 

He sits back and watches as J. brings his arms up and then close to his chest — and that, too, is slow, and stiff. J. massages his own wrists, and Bruce doesn’t miss the way he presses hard against where the rings of bruises run darkest. 

J.’s eyes fall closed again, and he sighs. The sound carries no pain, though. Only quiet contentment. 

“Do you need anything else?” Bruce asks. 

J. appears to consider this, peering up at him through one eye while the other remains shut. 

“There’s water under the bed,” he says. 

Bruce fetches it for him, feeling stupid that he didn’t think of this himself. Of course J. would need water, after he deepthroated Bruce like that and then — yeah. 

When he sits back on the bed with the water bottle, J. is beginning to stir, trying to sit up. 

“Here,” Bruce says quietly, dropping the bottle on the bed between them and moving to help. “Let me.” 

He rests a steadying hand on J.’s back, but J. shakes his head, letting hair fall almost completely over his right eye. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“I could —” 

“Brucie. I’m _fine_.” 

“Well, at least let me get the clamps off.” 

There’s just a hint of a grin to the corner of J.’s mouth that he can see through his hair. “Oh, those are staying on.” 

Bruce’s stomach drops. “I thought —” 

J. takes pity on him. “Pull the pillows up for me, would you?” 

Bruce does, and J. sits back against them gingerly, letting them take his weight. He reaches for the water bottle and uncorks it, and regards Bruce as he takes a long sip. 

“That was good,” he says. 

Bruce holds his eyes. His throat is almost completely blocked. 

J.’s smile grows, and he takes another sip. “Would you relax? I’m not planning to go out there and bring another guy around as soon as you’re gone.” 

“Good to know,” Bruce says. His own voice sounds flat and wooden to his ears. 

“It _was_ good,” J. assures him. “Even though you were holding back.” 

Bruce blinks. “I wasn’t —” 

“Yes, you were. Now, imagine what we could get up to if you stopped!” 

Bruce looks away. “Not gonna happen.” 

“Why?” 

“It just won’t.” 

J.’s smile turns both lazy and feral all at once. “But it felt good, didn’t it? I could tell. You liked it.” 

Bruce doesn’t respond, nor does he look up. “I should go.” 

“I’m here every week,” J. whispers. “I’d be down for an encore, if you are. Say, next Saturday?” 

Bruce runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back here again.” 

“Well, think about it. I’ll wait for you. Just not too long, mind — the membership for this place costs an arm and a leg and I need this too badly to waste my time pining. No offense.” 

Bruce risks a glance at him, and can’t help the question that spills out despite his better judgment: “So, did you get your money’s worth tonight?” 

“Maybe.” Playful sparks are beginning to light up J.’s eyes again. He smiles at Bruce. “Thanks for that, darling.” 

Then he closes his eyes again, and rests back against the pillows. Bruce watches him — the lines of his face, the loose limbs, the long, slumped body he was furiously debauching not ten minutes ago. 

The clamps, still clinging tight to J.’s nipples, keeping them red and inflamed and sensitive. The legs, spread wide. The stain of come cooling in the middle of his pale, naked stomach. 

Heat stirs up in Bruce again, and his cock twitches. He looks away. 

His legs are still sluggish and rubbery when he starts on the slow journey around the bed to pick up his clothes, and he tries not to look at J. as he gets dressed but his eyes keep darting that way anyway. J. never once opens his eyes, and when he swallows, a vein pulses in his throat. 

Bruce stares at it, and at the tension he can see already starting to take hold in J.’s jaw. 

It’s a reckless impulse, but then again, this seems like a good night for them. Bruce seizes it and then leans back over the bed, and gently kisses the pulse point in J.’s neck which jumps furiously under his lips. 

“Thank _you_ ,” he whispers into it. 

J. moves to swat him over the head. Bruce is faster. He catches J.’s hand in his, and turns it over so he can kiss the inside of J.’s wrist, right over the bruise. 

That _he_ ’s left there. 

_Jesus._

J. doesn’t say anything, just looks up at him through half-lidded eyes which gleam bright and alert in the room’s subdued lighting. The gaze seems to want to flay him naked, so Bruce turns before it can. 

He shrugs on his jacket almost as an afterthought, and doesn’t really care about buttoning up his shirt all the way. His fingers shake too much for that. 

At the door, he turns, and looks at J. one last time. Those green eyes are still fixed on him, and for once, J. isn’t smiling. 

So Bruce doesn’t either. He isn’t sure he’d be able to fake a smile now, anyway. He feels — strange, like coming down from a high except not quite because this thing here and now is far too warm for it. But the unsteadiness is similar, and so’s the way his heart rate picks up, and the rattled, raw sensation in his chest. 

None of which manage to push out the pleasure that’s still clouding the edges of his mind, making him numb and quiet and loose-limbed. 

He nods at J., and turns to the door. 

He walks through the club slowly, and it feels like walking through fog — first the dark blacklight corridor, then the stairs, then the frenzy of color and sound of the main floor, all blurred and out of focus as though a part of Bruce is still back in that little red room with J., refusing to leave. 

That’s familiar, too. He’s had this sensation before, this detachment, this confused haze that comes after an adrenaline surge. But never after sex — definitely not this strong. 

And that makes all the difference. 

He’s passing the bar, eyes doggedly on the exit, when someone catches him sharp and rough by the elbow. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Selina demands. “I was worried!” 

Bruce turns to her. Her eyes narrow, and her perfectly plucked eyebrows plunge as she takes him in. 

“You’re covered in glitter,” she observes. 

Bruce shrugs. “Yeah. And other things too, probably.” 

“Yes.” Selina frowns at him, and then her eyes go round as the penny drops. “Oh no.” She lets go of his elbow. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t.” 

Bruce shrugs again, not meeting her eyes. 

“I’m going home,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets and then immediately hating himself for this show of vulnerability. “I’ll call for Alfred to send a car. You have a good night.” 

Selina doesn’t respond. If anything, she looks ready to strangle him, and not in the sexy way either. Bruce shoots her a half-smirk and turns away, and heads on through the pulsing lights and music and bodies straight for the door. 

Alfred picks him up personally. His face doesn’t visibly change when he catches sight of Bruce up close, but Bruce imagines he can see his servant’s blank hardening into granite. 

“Had a good night, sir?” he asks once Bruce is safely shepherded into the backseat and they’re pulling out of Oz’s super secret parking lot. 

“Yeah.” Bruce sighs, letting his head roll back and to the side so he stares unseeing at downton Gotham’s glimmering streets. “You could say that.” 

“There’s wet wipes under your seat,” Alfred gently advises, “in case you’d like to get cleaned up.” 

Bruce snorts, and doesn’t move. He closes his eyes, and spends the rest of the way home replaying everything that happened detail by detail, frame by frame, feeling by feeling, searing it into his memory. 

He wonders what J. is doing, and if he’s still in that room, splayed over the covers and breathing deep over the memory of Bruce moving inside him. 

Bruce hopes he is. He hopes — 

_God._

He collapses into bed as soon as he gets home, but he can’t sleep, and tosses and turns until he gives in and jerks off over the memories until he’s raw and breathless and desperate. 

It’s the moment when the memories bloom into fantasies of what else he could do to J. in that room that he knows one thing for sure. 

He can’t let himself go back. 


End file.
